Out here from where I observe you, as you make those saloon doors swing,
Pay my silence no mind, pretend I’m blind, need to know if your bullets sting.
The high noon beckoning, hyper-aware reckoning and coiling up like a broken spring.
Draw your words as your iron, paint your pictures as your hidden identity,
I’ll see it in your face if I bother to look at all, demons or angels of serenity.
Who fires first never matters because it will always be you no matter the context,
Gotta see if you shoot straight, aim true, turn the simple draw so damn complex.
Later we can share a shot of whiskey so strong and bitter always is that taste,
I may even heal those wounds, spit your poison into the spitoon in wasted haste.
And when it’s time for bed you can claim me dead, leave me outside town a waste.
Ride outta town spurring the dead horse, onwards to the next town like so many times before,
This one cannot find a home to call his own, no love and a past no one and nothing can ever restore.
Sleeping under the black canopy of the night again wondering if we should finally lay down those guns,
No pondering if our hat is black or white, the sheriff stays and protects his town, the outlaw only runs.
– Thomas Spychalski